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"You're making that face again," Don tells him. "Don't."
He has to take Logan's dick out of his mouth to slur through the words, the strings of spit between his lower lip and the swollen head glistening in the sun.
"The doomed lover face, that one. I can't take all the melancholy."
For what it's worth, there is indeed a newfound flexibility in Logan's eyebrows that he can feel when simply looking at the man he lives with. He shakes it off like a traumatic hallucination, grabs the back of Don's head and shoves himself back in with no preamble.
Don doesn't choke, he doesn't even blink, blue eyes calm and fixed on Logan firmly.
He slides right down the throat, the sneaky tongue coming up to caress the vein on the underside, tracing him. It's stealth, silent and efficient like the rest of Don is.
"Who taught you this, huh?" Logan gasps, rubbing the saliva that leaks out of the corner of Don's mouth into his beard. It's rhetorical and kind of a compliment, but Don feels the need to answer and releases him again anyway, rubbing the head against the short hairs under his lip.
"The army," he says cheerfully and grins, stretching his swollen lips. "To be honest with you, I didn't really know it was a part of the program. But hey, more survival skills for me."
"Did they recognize your natural potential for it or some shit?"
"That's one way to call it." Don lowers his voice like he's about to disclose the information you get a tribunal and a firing squad over. "There are two places you don't want to be too hot for -- the prison and the army..."
His fingers are stroking Logan's balls so softly it tickles and move further down, where they are not allowed to go.
"... and I'd hate to brag, but I used to be kinda hot back in the day."
Don's fingers slide along the skin behind Logan's balls, creeping through the hairs. It's wet and messy with his saliva everywhere.
Logan gasps with dual shock and grabs his wrist hard.
"Here comes the face again." Don sighs and obediently slides his fist up Logan's length, finding a smooth rhythm. "Come on, hit me with a tortured superhero scowl."
Logan chuckles, shaking the vulnerable expression off his face and gives the scowl his best shot.
"Oh yes, that's my man," Don nods and opens his mouth again, but all Logan is able to see in front of him is a skinny kid who is too soft and too green for a testosterone-infused army machine he's been thrusted into. It's such a pitiful sight.
He pulls Don's head off no matter how welcome his warmth is. It earns him a bloody bite at the tender skin of the inner thigh.
The crazy fuck is a biter. Part of it is compulsive. It's also a device to study Logan's healing ability in its ever-changing dynamics.
Some bites go away completely now, but most of them leave pale, barely detectable marks Don seems to be satisfied with.
If Logan bleeds these days, it's a rare occurrence. Thanks to the pills Don gets him, his body rebuilds itself to a basic configuration that is beaten and battered, but at least not chronically ill and decaying.
"Think of it as of living with a condition," Don often says and looks at Logan like he's some kind of broken heavy machinery he can fix. He always can, curious and excited about figuring out the ways to make gears run smoothly.
He can see young Don sometimes when the light balances shadows just right on his face; he can see the innocence and the faith in all things good coming through the jackal mask he's usually wearing.
He'd be insufferable back then probably, enthusiastic and open in a way Logan finds uncomfortable to watch from a close distance. He would avoid the kid like a plague. And he'd love him just the same.
The wave of melancholy is crushing, and he counters it by throwing Don down the mattress. It's a long fall, but he catches himself on the elbows and knees, digging in. Such a little trooper he is.
It's a real shame to waste all the cooling saliva that covers Logan. He puts it to work, pushing in, strong against the contracting muscles. The tightness hurts. He can only imagine how it feels to Don who doesn't breath at all, wrecked by the small tremors.
"Do you want me to..." Logan starts, just to be sure.
"Shut the fuck up," Don explodes, kicking his stump against the bed. "Just get to it, oh my god."
Now that's the Don he knows. He laughs low in his throat, satisfied by how the man under him can't finish the tirade, draws back and slams forward.
There is no mercy after that. As their hips collide, Logan has to put a hand on the man's chest, just to make sure his ribs are moving. When Don loosens up after a while, the guttural moans come in a constant flood.
Then the shakes follow, violent, rolling through the kid's thinner frame, and Logan shakes with him. He licks his palm, circling his fingers around the heavy dick jumping between Don's spread thighs and he doesn't even get to finding a proper rhythm.
Don clenches and shouts in pure desperation, coming all over them both.
His spasms hurt. Logan holds still through them for a moment, before he pulls out, tearing himself away from the burning hot body.
He shakes his head, blinking, trying to clear his mind as his brain is pulsing along with his dick. As his vision clears, he grabs Don's shaking thighs and slams back in.
There are no words this time, but Don's body tries to get away on its own volition. It's too much and he's too sensitive to go on, but there is nowhere for him to run, nothing to grab onto.
They break the bed the first time they ever fuck, years ago. It's just a box with a mattress now and it leaves Don to scratch the wall while Logan pulls him back onto himself.
"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he rasps, delirious with the trembling tightness. He pushes Don's face hard into the sheets muting the weak moans.
Don's hand comes to his thigh, digging the nails in. He pushes back, weakly, echoing the rhythm. Logan would find it endearing if he wasn't that carried away with his impending release.
Before he comes, he can feel Don convulsing again, the warmth hitting his leg, soundless. Just like that, following him, he lets himself go, too.
"I knew you had it in you," Don croaks after a while. "We should do it again sometime."
Logan turns his head with an effort and squints at him waiting for the face to come into focus. His ribs burn from all the gasping; every joint is tender, and he can't really lift his hand without embarrassing himself with all the shaking.
He walks the fingers through the blankets and sheets instead and pets Don's dripping hair awkwardly.
"Not right away, though," Don quickly adds, pressing his knees together.
"Yeah," Logan agrees, stroking through the blond strands. Neither of them can move anyway.
He closes his eyes and lets himself drift, and if there is a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, Don is gracious enough not to bitch about it.